Fall With Honor
by 570K4
Summary: Ten years before Order 66, the Jedi Order thrives, training the young Force Sensitives to be the peacekeepers of tomorrow. A young Jedi in training discovers the seductive power of the Dark Side, and is forced to leave the Order, with no money, no friends, and no idea just how harsh the outside world is. Rated M for dark themes, violence.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's notes**

**So, firstly, I would like to say that I am not as much of a Star Wars nerd as I would like to be, and there are probably some inaccuracies within the story. Please point them out to me, and drop a PM or review. **

**I know that I am not much of a writer, but I enjoy the process, so that's what matters, right? I don't plan my stories in the slightest, and I have no more idea where this is going than you do. So similarly, if anyone has any great ideas to that effect, drop me a review or PM. I wrote a 60,000 word story on that principle, and I'm told it worked okay.**

**Finally, I hope you enjoy, and may the Force be with you all.**

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><p>A lightsaber, even the ones used for training, made a very distinct noise when they made contact with a living being.<p>

It started with a high pitched crackle, as the clothing over the target area burned away in a flicker of a second, thin wisps of flame spreading from the impact site along the rest of the fabric, followed by ripples of charring.

Then there was the low hiss, as superheated plasma met flesh, as skin boiled, as energy met solid substance.

After, for the briefest of moments, there was silence.

But then, the screaming began.

"Ow, you gravel maggot, Varga!" Titus Mapa screamed, his voice echoing through the training hall. "That's going to leave a mark!"

The hall was brightly lit by the sun streaming in the crystal windows, about thirty meters above on the high ceiling, glinting faintly on the marble stones of the smooth floor, intermixed with the reflected glow of the thirty odd lightsabers, and the occasional flash of sparks as the combatants parried and deflected.

Marcus Varga tried to dismiss the vindictive thrill of harming another living being, and was moderately successful, his face expressionless by the time he deactivated his blue lightsaber with a quiet hiss, clipped it onto the simple fabric belt that rang his dark blue tunic, and removed the thick burlap hood from over his face.

"Oh I'm sorry, Titus." Marcus said, a smile cracking the edges of his mouth. "I didn't see you there."

Titus yanked off his own hood, glancing down at the two centimeter wide smoking gash on the arm of his tunic, and the purpling flesh beneath.

"Fuck you." Titis retorted hotly, shooting a rude hand gesture in his direction.

"Language, Mapa." Master Cenvax said, a disapproving frown on his face, as he passed by, not glancing at the pair of them for more than a second. "I have a bag of sand that needs sorting. So kind of a young Jedi in training like you to volunteer to accompany me tonight."

Titus's face fell, and several of the other pairs of practicing combatants fought a little harder, finding it far safer to be occupied when Master Cenvax passed. His disciplinary actions were the stuff of legends in the Temple, bordering on the unusual. Students that attracted too much negative attention quickly found themselves using the Force to pick grass in the gardens, transfer specific amounts of water from one glass to another, or in this case, levitate specks of sand from a cloth bag, and sort them by color.

"Yeah, very funny." Titus snapped, his pale orange lightsaber blazing to life in his hand, as he took up an offensive stance, holding the blade parallel to the floor, pointed toward Marcus. "Now let's go again, without the blindfold."

Marcus took a moment to glance around the hall, his eyes adjusting to the bright light, after an hour under the blinding hood.

About fifteen pairs of the initiates were training, ranging in age from ten to eighteen, from the clumsy sweeps of the younger boys and girls, using light wood staves, rather than training sabers, to the blinding, sparking dance of the older ones, who made up in enthusiasm what they lacked in finesse.

He ducked just in time to avoid Titus's swing, the orange blade passing close enough overhead that he could feel the heat on his scalp. Titus stepped forward, using his momentum to angle the blade downward in an overhand stroke, slamming it into the marble floor as Marcus pushed off with his feet, rolling backward out of the way, rising to his feet in a graceful leap, drawing his own saber, activating it in a blaze of blue, and bringing it around in a swatting arc, knocking the incoming thrust out of the way and pressing his attack, the familiar crackle and sparking of contacting lightsabers filling the air, the mechanics of ripostes and lunges and sweeps erasing conscious thought.

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><p>"Oh, cheer up, Titus." Cora said, giving Titus a shove on the shoulder, careful to avoid the fresh bandage on his upper arm. "I had to do the sand thing with Master Cenvax a few weeks ago, it wasn't that bad."<p>

Cora Mindar was sixteen years of age, with a long, silky black ponytail that fell down between her shoulder blades, flawless pink skin, and a tunic that was a tad bit too tight.

Marcus had grown up with her, had known her for his entire life in the Jedi Temple, but that didn't affect the warm, floating sensation in his chest one bit, as her emerald green eyes met his over the table.

"Tell him, Marcus." She chided, as she turned her attention to her food, and sinking her teeth into a ripe purple fruit.

"I've never done the sand thing." Marcus admitted. "But he made me do the thing with the cups of water once, where you have to transfer it from one to the other, but unless you get the amount exactly right, you have to start over."

"What are you talking about?" Cora asked, after swallowing, her eyebrows coming together.

"Nevermind." Marcus muttered, chuckling. "Suffice it to say that it's going to be awful."

"Oh you're nice." Titus muttered darkly. "See if I help you with your classwork."

"Oh, quit being all broody." Cora soothed, laying a hand on Titus's shoulder. "I'll probably still be up when you get done. We can go up to the overlook, watch the ships go by at night, or go for a walk by the fountains."

Marcus had grown up with Cora and Titus, but that didn't affect the cold hand that seemed to grip his heart as he watched her put a hand on his shoulder, in that carefree, casual way, as he thought of the two of them alone near a quietly bubbling fountain, and she-

"Are you okay?" Titus asked, giving Marcus a concerned look. "You know I was kidding about the classwork thing, right?"

"Yeah, I was just thinking about... advanced principles of thermodynamics and hyperspace travel." Marcus fumbled.

"Oh, so that's why it looked like you were trying to pull a tree out of the ground with the Force." Titus chortled.

Cora giggled noisily, and despite the trickle of anger in his heart, Marcus found himself unable not to smile as he watched her laughing, and pretended for one glorious moment that she was laughing at something he said, that she was going to wait for him at the overlook later, to watch the starships float gracefully by, as the ever present lights of the city glimmered in the distance.

He would have sorted all the sand in the galaxy for that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Yes, I am aware that these chapters are really short. I was going to make it longer, but didn't want to go to bed with just the one chapter published, or worse yet, rush through the scene ahead. So, I split it in half, the rest to follow tomorrow.**

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><p><span><em>A male Twilek is injured, by a piece of shrapnel that pierced his chest cavity. He is conscious, though is having difficulty speaking, and is coughing up blood. The entry wound is approximately one centimeter in diameter, located four centimeters upward, and three to the right of the sternum, and there is no exit wound. Describe in detail, the steps you would take to stabilize his condition.<em>

Marcus sighed, closing his eyes. He had been staring at the same question of his assignment for hours, unable to focus. His mind kept wandering, no matter how much he tried to meditate, or how hard he stared at the screen of his terminal. He had tried to type an answer several dozen times, but never seemed to get past the first few sentences before he lost his train of thought.

There were subjects that he struggled in, like advanced mechanics, philosophy, and political science. He had always been quite talented in the medical subjects, finding the physiology of other species to be fascinating, finding the practice of first aid to be immensely practical.

But his unfocused mind tonight was unrelated to his academic prowess.

He reached forward and switched it off, more forcefully than necessary, rising to his feet, pacing his tight sleeping quarters restlessly.

It felt as if a fire had been kindled, somewhere in his stomach, insisting that he remain active. And yet, he had nothing to do with his energy. Thoughts and images probed at his mind like sand gnats on a summer day, making rest or distraction impossible. He was forced so simply sit here, like an ice cube in a blast furnace, and endure, as the fever consumed him.

He attempted to occupy himself by sitting cross legged on his narrow, neatly made bed, watching through the oval shaped window as the endless streams of starships flitted by in the distant space lanes, freighters and taxis and hoverbikes and starfighters alike, coming and going. He reached out to the Force, feeling it wash over him like a cool breeze, it's gentle energy filling him as he closed his mind, the faint presence of billions of life forms outside serving to relax him for a moment.

But as his eyes closed, his mind turned to the view out the window, and soon his thoughts turned to one particular life form.

Cora was out there, her smooth black ponytail hanging idly down her back, leaning against the railing at the overlook balcony, all of Coruscant stretched out below her like a testament to her beauty, as she waited for Titus to finish his punishment, a task that could stretch well into the night, knowing Master Cenvax. One of Marcus's tasks had occupied him from after dinner until the sun was rising in the morning. There was no guarantee that Titus would even go to see Cora. He might be too tired, and simply retire to his quarters.

But Cora would be there waiting for him, no matter how long it took him.

And she was undoubtedly alone.

As the door of his quarters slid shut behind him, his boots padding softly on the smooth floors, the dimly lit Jedi Temple all but silent around him, he told himself that he was just going to talk to his friend, that he just wanted someone to talk to, someone to meditate with. The fact that it was Cora, and that he would be alone with her, without Titus to make her smile and laugh, was not something that he wanted to spare a second thought on, lest he begin to question his own motives.

He also had his training lightsaber clipped to his belt. He hadn't even given that a first thought.

The confining space of the turbolift was like a prison, a cage, a torturous burden too much for a mortal man to endure. Without ample room to pace, Marcus merely stood in the center, every muscle tense, his heart pounding, wondering what was happening to him.

Finally, the doors hissed open, and he stepped out, contemplation giving way to action as he surged from the elevator like a force of nature, all but silent as he stepped across the tall, spanning halls of the Temple.

He was in one of the towers, close enough to the top that the outer wall curved visibly around the outside, where a quietly bubbling fountain waited, beyond it, the sweeping archway leading into the open air.

Wasting no time deviating from his path, Marcus simply hurdled the fountain, and sped out into the night air, the cooler temperature soothing his restlessness somewhat, the low hum and ripple of the distant starship traffic giving him something to think about at least, some sort of stimulus.

The overlook balcony in question was a ring that encircled one of the towers of the Temple, about five meters across, with an inward angled railing of smooth white durasteel. He started around in a circuit, waiting for the inevitable moment when he would see Cora appear around the distant edge, hair rippling in the breeze slightly. She would turn to look at him, expecting Titus, but finding Marcus instead. She would be a little hesitant at first, but then they would talk, she would smile, she would laugh, she-

Marcus was running now, sprinting around the circular balcony, heart pounding in his chest, the Force flowing around him, warning him, in the way that his neck might tingle as a lightsaber was spinning toward his face. Cora needed him. He didn't know why, or how, but she needed him.

And then he reached the archway that he had used to gain access to the balcony.

She wasn't here.

He stopped for a moment to gather his breath, placing his feverish hands on the railing of the balcony, his mind racing to match his heart, as the compulsion, the infection-like state that had fallen over his mind, began to clear.

Was he going insane? What would have prompted such urgency in coming to see her in the first place?

He took a few deep breaths, focusing on his heartbeat, relishing the sudden clarity that he found. It wasn't his business what Cora did in her off time. She was perfectly safe, here in the Temple, surrounded by Jedi. She was probably in her quarters asleep, having not bothered to wait up for Titus.

For some reason, the last thought brought him a strange relief, as he stepped back inside, past the quietly bubbling marble fountain, and toward the turbolift, trying to catch the thought nagging at his mind like a tick.

Being inside the lift was nowhere near as bad as last time, though it was still a bit cramped. He closed his eyes as he descended, wondering if he should go for a walk before returning to his quarters. In his current state, he could use a chance to clear his mind. Maybe he should take a stroll through the room of a thousand fountains, or the hall of records. Maybe even...

The fountains.

Cora was going to meet Titus by the fountains.

Cora was going to be alone with Titus, in the dimly lit gardens.

The mask of clarity vanished, and Marcus tapped the elevator controls as fast as his trembling hands would allow, willing the infernal cage to move faster.

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><p><strong>Closing Notes: As always, any story suggestions and feedback is greatly welcome. If not, I will continue to make it all up as I go.<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

The low whispering bubble of the fountains filled the cavernous indoor gardens, the ceiling so high that Marcus could not make it out, in the dim lighting. Instinctively, he kept to the grassy areas, to prevent the telltale slap of boots on stone pathway, from giving away his position.

The hall was easily the size of several athletic fields, with clumps of trees, and marble monuments to ancient Jedi, the nearest, a spanning obelisk to commemorate the survivors of some peacekeeping operation gone wrong.

But Marcus was not here for the scenery.

He hurtled through the shadows, relying more on the Force to guide his steps, rather than his eyes, the low, insistent panic filling him as he searched the gardens, his brow rippled with concentration, as if he could cause Cora to materialize by sheer force of will.

Despite his addled, feverish obsession, some deep rooted, predatory part of his mind still remained clear, telling him that he would be better pressed to use his other senses.

Paying heed to such instincts, Marcus stopped in the cover of a copse of tall, needle covered trees, closing his eyes, waiting for his heartbeat to slow, allowing him to listen. The Force, and his meditation practice aided him here, and after about twenty seconds of focusing on the ever present whispers of the fountains, he was able to dismiss it, honing his awareness like the edge of a knife.

Voices. One high, the other lower, speaking quietly, but not making any particular effort to remain stealthy.

It was them. It had to be. Cora needed him.

Marcus started in an indirect path toward his target, assuming the graceful lope, of some woodland predator, a pose better suited to stalking game in a snowy forest, than it was toward approaching his oldest friends. They saw nothing of him, heard nothing of him. Without considering it, he even reached out for the Force, wrapping it's presence around him like a cloak, muffling his lifesign, to prevent the pair of them from sensing his proximity. He was helpless, utterly helpless, as an iron filing is helpless but to follow the pull of a strong magnet.

He saw them, before he was close enough to make out their words, but got the general idea that words would have been irrelevant.

His heart leaped within him, something resembling joy, coursing through him as he saw Cora, her black hair unbound, contrasting her alabaster skin, a gentle, caring smile on her face.

It ebbed a good deal as he registered that the smile was directed toward Titus, who sat beside her on the soft grass, far too close to her, even for old friends. Her head was laid across his chest as he leaned back against the tall wall of the fountain behind, his arm draped casually over her shoulders, thumb brushing absently at her upper arm, where the short sleeves of her tunic ended.

They were facing toward him, but Marcus was forty meters away, cloaked in deep shadow, so there was little danger of being spotted, even if they had been watching. He felt a strange mixture of emotions and sensations, as he saw Cora lean up, placing a gentle, carefree kiss on his best friend's smiling lips, as she sat, pressed up against him like that.

Marcus had expected jealousy. He had been prepared for jealousy. But, much to his surprise, his compulsive need for her dimmed, replaced by a soothing sense of relief that his friend was not in danger. He felt a faint sadness, that she was touching and kissing Titus like that, and not him. But nevertheless, he found himself smiling at the thought of two young people caring for each other, no matter what the Jedi Order taught on the subject.

His head spinning with the implications, Marcus turned away, sinking back into the shadows. He wasn't needed here. His friends were safe.

"Titus, no, what are you doing?"

Her words were a little louder than their earlier murmurings, the higher tone projecting better across the distance, reaching Marcus's ears as he stepped away.

If not for the hesitancy and fear in her voice, he could have left unnoticed.

Marcus couldn't make out the words of whatever insipid lie that Titus told her in response, but he froze, turning back once more, the scene coming back into view.

Cora was frozen by indecision, grasping a handful of Titus's tunic, either clinging to him, or pushing him away, as his own hand rested on her thigh, squeezing gently.

"No, we can't." She said, a little quieter, but loud enough that Marcus could still make out her words if he focused.

"It's okay, no one will find out, I promise." Titus assured her, trailing a hand up her forearm, pulling her close despite her half hearted resistance and kissing her, not gentle and caring, like earlier, but rougher, more possessive.

She responded for a moment, her low moan muffled against his hungry lips, something that plucked at Marcus's anger more than anything else, rooting him to his spot in the trees as he watched her give him a firm shove backward, their lips parting.

"This isn't about people finding out." she gasped. "I'm just... I'm not sure that.. you know."

"Shh, I'll be gentle," Titus murmured, his pose shouting otherwise as he gripped her by the upper arms, pulling her bodily back toward him as she tried to stand.

"Please, no." She gasped, a few stray tears rolling down her face. "Just not now, we don't have to-"

"I love you, Cora." Titus soothed, her struggles intensifying as he pulled her tight against his chest, his hands slipping down for the hem of her tunic. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"Titus, stop, it isn't right." She sobbed, making one last attempt to escape his grasp. "This isn't what-"

"GET AWAY FROM HER!" Marcus roared, exploding out of the treeline, the Force surging through him, an unfamiliar, but welcome presence falling over his mind as the grass around his feet rippled a little in unseen winds, faint flickers of wispy blue energy visible near his clenched fists as he stalked toward Titus and Cora.

Titus rose to his feet, eyes wide, Cora scooting backward, as if more frightened of this new arrival.

"It's not what it looks like." Titus protested, holding his hands out in front of him in appeasement. "Just calm down, it's-"

Marcus ignored his excuses and words, surging forward in a flicker of movement, and ramming his fist into Titus's mouth, feeling the jolting impact all the way up to his shoulder, along with a primal, savage joy as he watched him topple backward, feet stumbling drunkenly as his neck spun back to it's extreme limit, collapsing in a clumsy heap on the stones next to the fountain.

"You don't deserve her." Marcus snarled, stepping over Titus, who was busy groaning, and fumbling his way to his feet.

"Look, I-" Titus started, his words failing when Marcus kicked him in the ribs, hard enough to slide him backward, sending him sprawling back to the stone, curling up in a ball and clutching at his chest, gasping for air.

"Marcus, what the hell?" Cora demanded, stepping between the two of them, her eyes bright with tears, both shed and unshed, and a terrified sort of courage. "Is that what this is about?"

"It's okay now," Marcus said quietly, looking into her eyes, placing a hand on her shoulder. "I'm here to-"

She slapped his hand away, giving him a rough shove to the chest.

"This doesn't concern you." She snapped. "Just leave him alone. You've done enough."

"I'm trying to protect you!" Marcus shouted, taking a step closer to her, both hating and enthralled by the fear blooming in her eyes. "He was trying to rape you a minute ago, in case you've forgotten!"

"Oh, so you're here to save the pretty princess, so you can scoop me up in my arms and finish what he started?" Cora hissed, nevertheless taking a step back, shying away from him. "If you're here to protect me from him, who's protecting me from you?"

"Why were you down here in the first place?" Titus accused, a cold gleam of vindication in his eyes, spitting out a gout of blood, as he rose to his feet. "Thought you'd come spy on us, since you can't get laid on your own merit?"

"YOU SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH!" Marcus roared, starting forward toward him, until Cora blocked his path. "And stop defending him."

"Marcus, enough." Cora breathed, her hands shaking. "Is that all the both of you can think about?"

Then all conversation dropped to a halt as Titus activated his lightsaber, the orange blade bright in the dimly lit gardens, a harsh contrast to the green and the white.

"Stop it, both of you, before this gets out of hand." Cora pleaded, eyes going wide as Titus started forward, cold fury in his eyes as he swung the saber toward the pair of them, wielding it like a barbarian's club.

Marcus shouldered Cora out of the way, sending her staggering to the side as he ignited his own saber, bringing it up in a hurried sweep, his shoulders straining as the two blades met, buckling under his friend's anger fueled strength, planting his feet as the crossed blades slipped closer and closer to his face.

No longer bound by the rules of the training hall, or even by the unspoken rules of honorable combat, Titus thrust a powerful kick out, aiming for Marcus's crotch, hitting his hip instead as he twisted to avoid it, nevertheless forcing him back a few steps.

Marcus ignored the pain, ignored the fear, forcing himself to remember his all consuming rage, letting it guide his actions, charging back forward, instead of taking a moment to collect himself, catching Titus by surprise as he flicked his saber around in an arc, parrying the lunge directed for his chest, attacking in a short, vicious swipes, sparks flying, static crackling as the blades struck, competing with the sound of their ragged breathing, as finesse quickly gave way to brutality.

Titus leaned back, avoiding a wide swing so narrowly that his tunic blackened from the heat of the blade, bent, and scooped up a handful of loose dirt, flinging it into his opponent's eyes. Marcus staggered backward, rubbing at the painful grit that blinded him, desperately blocking a powerful overhand strike that buckled his knees slightly, as he strained to repel the attack one handed, the hilt of his saber slipping in his sweaty hand.

Marcus forced one stinging eye open, just in time to see Titus unleash a two handed swing, knocking his saber from his hand, the blue blade deactivating as it fell to the grass with a soft thump.

"Not so tough now, are you?" Titus snarled, advancing on his unarmed opponent.

He was caught off guard as Marcus reached out to the Force, which surged through him with a thrumming, terrifying power he had never felt before, a blast of energy pulsing through the air, catching Titus squarely in the chest, knocking him back a full meter as he struggled to keep his feet.

Marcus stretched out his hand toward his fallen lightsaber, which shot up from the dark grass, slapping into his waiting palm, hissing back to life in a blaze of blue.

A roar of anger left his lips as he rushed Titus, forcing him back, until his heels pressed against the base of the fountain, slamming strike after strike into his blade, utilizing raw strength rather than finesse, his teeth bared like a wild animal. Titus parried and turned away the strikes, but his guard faltered as his arms shook with exertion, his saber dropping, as his strength failed, a flicker of fear entering his eyes.

Pressing his advantage, Marcus sidestepped his opponent's upward sweep, clearly a desperate attempt to take the offensive and gain some breathing room. He stepped in close, swinging up his own saber, where it met Titus's blade, high over his head, forcing him to overbalance, leaving him no room to counter as Marcus tucked his head down, rammed a shoulder into his chest, and knocked him into the thigh deep water of the fountain with a terrific splash.

Titus thrashed back to the surface, as his fallen lighsaber met the water, and hissed out with a gurgling crackle, falling to the stone bottom, retreating backward as Marcus hurdled the lip of the fountain, keeping his saber high, well out of danger of contacting the water.

"All right." Titus gasped, jumping with fright as he backed into the centerpiece of the fountain, seeing something in his friend's eyes that awoke a deep, superstitious dread in him, like a child afraid of the dark. "I yield, you win. I'm so sorry, I never meant for this to-"

A lightsaber, even the ones used for training, made a very distinct noise when they made contact with a living being.

It started with a high pitched crackle, as the hair at the the target area burned away in a flicker of a second, thin wisps of flame rising from the bushy hair of an eyebrow, gone in a moment.

Then there was the low hiss, as superheated plasma met flesh, as skin boiled, as energy met solid substance.

After, for the briefest of moments, there was silence.

But then, the screaming began.

The cries of pure agony rang shrilly through the darkened hall, the smell of burning meat hanging in the air like a badly plucked note on a guitar, as Titus fell back, clutching the mass of scorched flesh that was once his right eye, now a wide, burnt gouge, blackened and charred.

"The presence of the Dark Side, in one so young." A quiet voice said from behind them. "Terrible, it is."

Marcus turned slowly, Titus's agonized whimpers and splashing fading from conscious thought as he saw a terrified and weeping Cora, standing behind the meter tall, green skinned form of Master Yoda.

Seeing Titus, Cora let out a muffled sob, leaping into the fountain, taking the floundering boy into her arms, looking up at Marcus with horror and disgust.

"Marcus," She wept, as her eyes flickered across the vicious wound on Titus's face. "What have you done?"


	4. Chapter 4

Despite the bright sunlight streaming through the all encompassing windows of the Jedi Council chamber, Marcus Varga felt shrouded in darkness. Anger, fear, uncertainty, guilt, they swirled around him like sea creatures in deep water.

"Master Yoda." Marcus said, bowing slightly toward the Jedi Master, an almost palpable aura of energy radiating from him. "I had no choice but to interfere. I could sense through the Force that Cora was in danger. That is why I was in the room of a thousand fountains at that hour."

He paused a moment, unable to meet his mentor's eyes.

"Titus and Cora, they were... he was attempting to force himself on her."

Yoda was silent for a long minute, the room devoid of noise, save for the muted hum of starships gliding by outside. In a rush of impulse, Marcus envied them. He would have given almost anything to be in one of those ships right now, strapped into the pilot's seat, ready to take off to some remote planet in the outer rim.

And there was no limit to what he would have offered, to have Cora snugged securely into the seat beside him.

"Striking down a defenseless, surrendering boy, you were, when I arrived." Yoda stated, voice heavy with sadness and shame. "Motivated by a desire to save initiate Cora, your actions were not. Consumed by anger and jealousy, your mind was."

"And what about Titus?" Marcus protested, unable but to flinch at his own sharp tone, toward the venerated Jedi. "How is what I did any worse than his actions?"

"Here to discuss that troubling matter, we are not." Yoda said firmly. "Convene, the council will, to discuss this incident. Determined, your fate will be. Have anything you wish to make known, before then, do you?"

Marcus took a minute of his own to reflect, trying to focus his mind, to blot out emotion and darkness and anger, to turn his thoughts back to the light, and to logic.

What would happen to him? The Council would convene to determine his guilt in the matter, and he would not be present to hear the outcome. He would have to wait in his quarters, until someone came to inform him of the verdict.

The thought of having to wait, of not knowing, terrified him more than anything else.

And yet, searching his thoughts, he found something in himself. Maybe it was resentment and anger, but in that moment, it felt like courage.

"The council's words will be irrelevant." Marcus stated forcefully, feeling his hesitation and uncertainty fall away, now that he had committed himself. "Why could it possibly matter, when you have already tried and convicted me in your own heart? The fact of the matter is, Titus was attempting to rape an innocent girl, one that I love, one that you failed to protect. I stopped him, not you, and not the council. It didn't feel like anger, or vindication. It felt like justice. I felt the power of the Dark Side in me, and it gave me the strength I needed to protect my friend."

A flicker of shock touched Yoda's features, before quickly being repressed.

"So before you have your Jedi thugs escort me back to my quarters, there is one thing I would like to make known." Marcus continued, terrified at the implications of his defiance, but enjoying the feeling of harming Yoda with his words.

He stared the Jedi Master directly in the eyes.

"I wish I had burned out both of his eyes, and drowned him in that fountain. That way, he would never be able to hurt anyone again."

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><p>Staring out the window of his quarters, Marcus watched the sun sinking behind the buildings, the vast urban skyline of Coruscant glittering like a vast sculpture of steel and glass.<p>

It was a sight he stared at often, wondering what it would be like to finally leave the Jedi Temple, to venture out into that wonderful, massive city, to explore, to descend into the depths of the urban planet, and see just what was down there.

Now, that would most likely not be happening.

They had taken his lightsaber. He had hesitated at that, turning over the weapon, they symbol of his future duties, the one possession he had carried with himself for the last ten years. He was going to be sentenced.

Sentenced. The mere word struck a thrill of dread through him. What could that mean? Being shifted off to some colony farm somewhere would be bad enough, but such things were reserved for those who simply failed to be selected by a mentor. What would happen to him, who had admitted to using the power of the Dark side, expressing a wish to kill a boy who was once his best friend.

Execution came to mind, but he dismissed it as unlikely. More probably that they would imprison him somewhere.

Maybe execution would be better than wasting away for seventy odd years in a tiny cell somewhere, with no future, no hope, no purpose, other than to consume food and die.

He glanced at his chronometer.

Five minutes since he had been escorted back to his quarters, and locked inside. Twelve hours to go before the hearing even started.

He had tried to meditate, with no success. Books failed to interest him, and even a glance at his disarrayed workbench sent his mind back to his lightsaber, and to his imminent fate.

Sitting cross legged on his bed, he thought of Cora for a moment, taking solace in the fact that although she probably hated him, and although he would most likely never see him again, that she was safe from Titus.

Compared to that, his own fate was irrelevant. Yes, he would most likely be imprisoned for the rest of his life, in a cell so small he could spit across it. But Cora was safe. If nothing else, he could always take his own life. Unless they prevented him, assigned guards to him.

In that case, the logical choice would be to do it now, while he knew he was alone. But could the Jedi Order really imprison him like that? Could they really consign him to a fate worse than death, for trying to protect his friend?

In summary, was he going to sit here and accept his fate?

When he finally spoke aloud, to no one in particular, his voice fell dead on the room, like a shout in a thick bank of fog.

"Do I trust the Jedi Order?"

* * *

><p><strong>Five minutes later.<strong>

Marcus had made his share of hasty decisions, which, now that he had an excellent time to reflect on those decisions, were what led him to his current situation. He had always been loath to dismiss an idea, once stuck in his mind, and the more he thought about an idea, the better and more plausible it seemed. It was a vicious cycle, he decided.

Except, this particular notion was such an obviously terrible one, he made note to slap himself thoroughly and enthusiastically, if he ever had the opportunity to do so again.

The wind whistled by like an army of invisible, insubstantial fists, slamming him against the very substantial side of the Jedi temple, the sleek mass of steel and concrete stretching down before him, the broad base of the structure waiting below, just close enough that he would have time to scream if he let go right now.

His fingers were bleeding from trying to grip the thin spool of high tensile cable, its upper limit secured to the windowsill in his quarters. As he thought of the protective machining gloves sitting on his work bench, the very ones he wore when he had fabricated this idiotic contraption now strapped to his back, the stream of curses that spewed from his mouth would have made a bounty hunter blush.

Using a multitool from his work bench, and a little help from the Force, removing the thick slab of transperisteel from his window had been easy enough. Tying off a length of high tensile cable to the bolt holes in the sill wasn't that hard either, nor were the slight modifications to a few of his recreational creations.

Convincing himself that this was going to work, required an entirely different kind of expertise.

He had lowered himself about fifty meters down the side of the Temple, and had now come to the end of his rope, both literally and figuratively. Gripping the slim cable, blood trickling down his wrists, and into his sleeves, he cursed himself again for not tying something to the end, to hold onto, when he began the really stupid part of this.

Feet scrabbling for purchase on the vertical wall, he began to swing himself from side to side, parallel to the broad wall, seeing surprised faces through the windows of the other dorms, a thought which gave him some small measure of satisfaction.

Maybe this was just a creative method of suicide, but at least they'd remember Marcus Varga.

Running sideways along the exterior wall now, Marcus inscribed a curving path along the side, dangling at the bottom of his line like a pendulum, reaching nearly to the far edge of the building at the apex of each swing.

Close enough, he judged, his heart hammering, for reasons unrelated to exertion.

Nearing the apex one final time, he gave an extra strain with his legs, pushing off as best he could from the vertical surface beside him, letting go of the cable, letting his acquired momentum carry him away from the towering structure of the Temple, and into empty space.

For a glorious moment, as the Jedi Temple fell away behind him, as he hung in the air, his accumulated velocity carrying him upward, it felt like he was flying, like one of the distant starships in the space lanes, bulleting through the glimmering city, whizzing past the towering skyscrapers.

Then momentum lost the battle with gravity, and he fell, tumbling through the windy air, fighting the wave of nausea in his lower chest.

He tugged frantically at the knot of thin cable on his chest, the slick blood from his torn fingers spraying away in the wind of his descent, and for a brief, horrible moment, the fearful certainty settled in his heart that he would die here because he was too good at tying knots.

Then it finally came free, and the broad Dragon Kite on his back sailed free, Marcus catching the short handle at the end of the quickly unspooling cable, yanked back upright as he dangled from ten meters of cable, connected at it's upper extreme to the meter wide Dragon Kite, that he had built from old industrial scraps.

Still plummeting toward the ground below, the kite was unable to arrest his fall, but still reduced his speed considerably, swinging him wildly to the side as the roughly triangular section of molded polymer and durasteel frame caught the wind turbulence from the nearest space lane, an invisible tunnel of air displaced by massive freighters and starships providing the energy to pull Marcus off course, and further away from the Jedi Temple behind him.

For the briefest of times, he was afraid his plan had worked too well, and he would actually be struck by a fast moving starship, but gravity saved him for a change, as he plummeted toward the walkways and rooftops below. He was falling quickly, but not nearly as fast as he would without the kite to slow his descent.

His brief flight reached a conclusion, as he looked down to find a jumbled mass of solid objects rushing up at him, the cable in his hands went taut as his kite snagged on something solid, going taut with a high note of some structural component breaking.

Then came the fall.

Lights, sounds, sensations, (mostly pain and shock) washed over him, and he faintly was aware calling on the Force at one point, surrounding himself with it's aura.

His aching eyes flickered open, unable to make sense of the confused snapshots of images, his ears overloaded by the sounds, but his back telling him that there was something solid pressed up against him.

He had made it.

He staggered to his feet, dimly aware of people standing around him, the nearly kilometer distant mass of the Jedi Temple, shining in the fading sunlight like a beacon of hope and truth.

Marcus's mouth seemed to be filled with cotton, and he spit a few times, the saliva bright red with his blood, before turning away, pulling his hood up over his bleeding face, and stumbling off into the city.


	5. Chapter 5

"Hey, gutter scum, wake up!"

Marcus jerked awake at the harsh voice, groaning as the bumps, bruises, and injuries of the evening returned to his awareness, stomach rumbling with hunger, the filthy fragment of fabric under which he slept falling away to his side, as he blinked blearily at the three unsavory individuals before him.

Fortunately, it seemed their attentions were focused on the man across the alley, his bearded, scarred face cast into deep shadow by the unlit alley, flickers of neon and other lighting streaming in from the far end, about ten meters away, casting an eerie glow over the dingy surroundings. They were all male, and all human, as far as Marcus could tell. He had seen their type before when he decided to venture downward into the city to avoid whoever the Jedi might send after him.

The largest of them seemed to be in charge, probably for that very reason. Marcus had to repress a wince as the second man, presumably Boyd, if the hand stitched name on the back of his jacket could be believed, decided to motivate the vagrant with a kick to the ribs.

The bearded man emitted a strangled gasp of pain, keeling sideways, trailing down the concrete wall behind him and clutching at his side, holding one hand up in a plea for mercy.

Interpreting the hand as a sign to continue, the leader knelt next to his victim, Boyd taking a step back, nodding to the third member of the gang, who started off at a fast walk, pausing at the entrance of the alley as a lookout.

Marcus pretended to drift back into a half sleep, torn between the fear that they would come for him next, and cold hatred at this blatant and pointless cruelty. Seeing Boyd turn in his direction, he let his eyes slip mostly shut, trying to appear as nothing more than one of the countless addicts, vagrants, and delinquents on the streets.

Marcus was only seventeen, but was shocked to find that he was far from the youngest who found themselves in the depths of Coruscant, so far down that the sunlight didn't even register.

"Please, I don't have anything." The vagrant gasped, as the leader of the crew placed a leather clad foot on his chest.

"I know you don't have anything." the man was saying, the cruel smile on his face suggesting that he was enjoying himself. "If you did, you'd probably be sitting here with you're veins full of glitterdust right now, floating through dreamland. I'm here to make sure that when you do get something, that you'll remember your old friend Anders, who makes sure it's safe for you to sleep here at night."

Fists clenching instinctively under the fragment of makeshift blanket, Marcus's jaw tightened as his fingers dug into the still bloody and filthy gouges left by the cable, during the climb down the Temple wall. Every fiber of his being, both his Jedi instilled sense of justice and honor, and his new found darkness, was demanding that he stand up and destroy these cretins. But fear took no sides, and he was outnumbered, unarmed, bloodied, bruised, and broken. Eyes burning with shame, Marcus remained still, half laying, half leaning against the cold hard wall behind him, discreetly pressing his hands against his legs, to prevent Anders and Boyd from noticing that he was trembling, from a combination of the chill temperature, fear, and anger.

"This old scum doesn't have anything." Anders said, standing up, kicking the man again, apparently just for whatever thrill could be derived from beating a helpless vagrant in an alley. "Let's go."

Marcus dared to let out a quiet breath of relief, though he was careful not to show it. He was already thinking about how best to divide his blanket, to tie and brace the inevitable broken ribs that his nameless companion had. Maybe he could beg, borrow, or steal a canister of bacta from someone on the street, possibly even drag the man to a medical clinic. He had never been out of the Temple for long before, and wasn't sure exactly how it all worked. Would they make him pay, for the man to see a doctor? Marcus didn't have any money, but maybe he-

"But first, let's see what's up with this one." Anders chuckled. "I haven't seen him around before, and he looks like some runaway rich kid."

Marcus betrayed himself with a quiet gasp of horror, earning a chuckle from Boyd.

"He thought he could just lay there, play dead, and we wouldn't bother him." Boyd chortled, withdrawing a thin knife from his belt. "What do you say, boss man? Should we show him what happens to little brats who hold out on us?"

So that was it then, Marcus realized. Running was out of the question, and inaction was no longer a solution.

He made a panicked attempt to use the Force, to do... something, maybe fling a bottle out of the trash can at Boyd's head, but found it's power to be as absent as warmth or hope.

"Please," Marcus said, the fear showing through in his eyes. "I have money."

Anders shoved him roughly to the ground, forceful hands giving him a pat down, an iron fist slamming into his stomach, leaving him gasping for air when his pockets were found empty.

"Could have fooled me." Anders said, drawing his hand back do deliver another blow.

"It's not on me." Marcus gasped, curling onto his side, his voice strained and low, fading to a whisper. "It's..."

"Well, don't be shy." Anders said, grinning at the prospect of making some real money. "Speak up, and tell your good friend Anders where you hid your money."

The thug leaned forward to better hear Marcus's strained whisper.

"You should have left me alone." Marcus whispered.

As Anders's brow crinkled in confusion, Marcus shot a hand up, his pain and aching body no longer registering his wounds, as he gripped Anders by the collar of his coat, tugging him off balance, and sinking his teeth into the man's ear.

"OW WHAT THE KRIFF!" Anders screamed, hands scrabbling for Marcus's neck, as Boyd stood paralyzed by inaction, clearly not used to their prey fighting back, especially in such a vicious, and unexpected manner.

Marcus let out a strained groan as Anders toppled, the bulk of his weight landing on his chest. He jerked his head to the side, attempting to escape the hands that sought to strangle him, having the unintended effect of tearing his ear clean off, tasting the spray of blood that jetted over his mouth and chin, smeared around by their struggle.

Managing to get his foot up, Marcus planted it in his opponent's side, and gave him a firm shove, sending Anders rolling away into the alley, clutching at his missing ear, blood seeping between his fingers. Rolling away as Boyd snapped to his senses, his foot whistling through the air that Marcus had occupied less than a second ago, Marcus scrambled to his feet, ear still clenched in his teeth, bringing his fists up, and facing his opponent.

Boyd lashed out with his knife in a sweeping thrust toward his stomach, Marcus backstepping instinctively to avoid it, trapping himself between the wall to his rear, and his knife wielding opponent. Unable to dodge the next overhand stab, Marcus threw his arms up, catching Boyd's wrists, grappling with him for a few seconds, as the would be thief attempted to use his superior weight and strength to ram the knife into Marcus's shoulder.

Considering at the moment that he was a good ten kilograms heavier than Marcus, who also had the handicap of his catastrophic crash into the city, Marcus decided it was probably going to work.

As the point of the knife drew closer to the junction of shoulder and neck, Marcus drew a breath in through his nose, spitting out the ear, and a mouthful of blood into Boyd's face, breaking his concentration, one of his hands snapping up instinctively to wipe the blood from his eyes, and clear his vision.

Pressing his advantage, Marcus backhanded the knife out of his loosening grip, sending it clattering to the floor between the trashcans, cocking back his other hand, and slamming a closed fist into Boyd's throat, sending him staggering backward, wheezing for breath.

Fixated on his target, Marcus never saw the third member of the gang coming, the lookout man hitting him like an out of control landspeeder, tackling him to the hard ground.

Marcus's vision blurred as the man proceeded to straddle him, raining punches down on him, raising his forearms over his face to protect himself as best he could.

"You think... you can... mess with... the-" The man said, in between blows, Marcus's head snapping back against the concrete with a sickening crack, as his guard failed.

Then the barrage stopped suddenly, something warm and wet spattering over Marcus as he looked up to find the bearded vagrant from across the alley, blood pouring over his knuckles, as he yanked Boyd's dropped knife out of the man's throat in a visceral spray of crimson.

Marcus shoved the dying thief off of him, staggering unsteadily to his feet, blearily aware of Anders having regained his footing, now grappling with his former victim, both of them snarling curses and obscenities as they fought.

A glance to his right revealed Boyd had risen to his knees, hacking and coughing, grasping at his injured throat, nevertheless starting toward Marcus, his fist shooting out in a clumsy punch.

Marcus raised his own hand in response, slapping the attack out of the air, interlacing his fingers behind Boyd's head, pulling downward as he snapped his knee up, the impact resulting in a terrific crunch of breaking bone, and a weakly struggling Boyd falling to the filth coated ground.

Kicking the enraged vagrant in the chest, sending him sprawling back into the trash heap where he previously lay, Anders turned to face Marcus, blood streaming down the side of his face, from the ragged chunk of protruding flesh that used to be his ear.

"You're a dead man, you little shit." Anders snapped, his fists clenching, towering over Marcus by nearly half a meter. "Got anything else to day, before I beat you to death with your own arm?"

Then, Marcus felt it. It was not unlike the rumble of a distant starship, a thrumming of powerful, but far off engines, seeming to pulse through his body like dark oil mixing with blood. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, his hatred for the man before him boiling over, like a hyperdrive unit overloading.

And then he focused that energy, letting it flow through him, rather than consume him.

He swept his hand through the empty air in front of him, one of the overflowing metal trash cans taking flight from the entrance of the alleyway, pounding into Anders's back, sending the man tumbling forward, arms flying out as he landed face down on the rough, bloodstained concrete.

He rose blearily to his knees, his nose bent at an unusual angle, his face bloody, his eyes struggling to focus on his surroundings.

Marcus stepped forward, all his fear, his uncertainty, his doubts, vanishing in the face of righteous hatred and the all consuming anger.

"May the Force be with you." He spat, drawing his leg back, and kicking Anders square in the mouth.

His head snapped back to it's extreme limit, blood spraying through the air, glistening in the light of the signs and lamps across the street, white fragments of teeth hanging weightless in the air, like an asteroid field.

Anders collapsed backward to the ground like a sack of rice, blood gurgling through his shattered nose as his eyes fluttered uselessly.

The nameless vagrant rose to some semblance of a sitting position, cold terror in his eyes as he looked up at Marcus.

"Have a pleasant evening." Marcus mumbled, starting toward the opening of the alley.

Thirty minutes later, Marcus leaned against the cold, hard wall of a nearly identical alley, six levels down, unlit, save for the lights across the street, which cast an eerie glow over the scene.

As he closed his eyes, breathing deeply despite the telltale pain in his chest of a cracked rib or two, he tried to see if there was any part of his body that didn't hurt.

His toes, he decided, eventually. His toes were feeling pretty good.

And so, stomach rumbling with hunger, blood seeping through the makeshift bandage on his forehead, Marcus allowed darkness to take him, drifting into the merciful oblivion of sleep, like a stone into deep water. At least he was warm this time.

Anders's thick coat was far too large for him to wear properly, but it made an excellent blanket.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's note:**

**Hello, sorry I've gone a while without posting. My life has gotten a bit busier lately, and I hadn't wanted to rush this. Updates should be following more frequently now, and I look forward to any feedback I might get. Also, the plot is actually moving forward in this chapter, so... enjoy, and may the Force be with you all.**

* * *

><p>Only on Coruscant, Marcus mused, in a detached sort of way. Only on Coruscant did a streetside noodle vendor, require a pair of blaster wielding armor plated guards.<p>

He stood, his new coat wrapped around him both to ward off the chill and to conceal his face. It was so long that it fell down to just below his knees, but he wasn't complaining. It was warm. He had picked a wash of deep shadow to stand in as he surveyed his target, wondering what time it was. Although he was fairly certain that it was daytime, he was almost a full kilometer below the urban surface, and knew there was no chance of light trickling down to this level.

The street was built of rough and poorly maintained duracrete, the buildings of prefabricated metals and polymers, often leaning against the massive support pillars and the older ruins, as if for support. It was a fairly active street, featuring a few dirty looking bars, a store or two, and a combination massage parlor and hotel.

Near the far end of the street, dangerously close to the edge of the illumination cast by the garish neon and the failing illumination panels, was a portable noodle vendor, offering thin plastic bowls of noodles, interspersed with bits of dubious looking meat. But, for someone like Marcus, who hadn't eaten in forty eight hours, well…. he was willing to not probe too deeply into the meat's origin.

Unfortunately, the problem of the meat was somewhat academic, as he had no money.

He had been roaming the undercity since the fight the night before, and he had seen enough dead bodies, and those on the brink of death, and by now, he knew better than to hope for the mercy of others. He blended in well enough with the rest of the pathetic inhabitants, his face bruised and swollen, his clothes dirty and torn, and he suspected he was beginning to develop that wary, desperate look in his eyes.

Despite this, there was still enough of the Jedi in him, enough for him to be sickened by the fact that he, at the age of seventeen, was far from the youngest on the street.

He forced himself back to the present circumstance, watching longingly as the customers came and went. He had no money, knew better than to ask for free food, which only left one option.

He had to steal.

The very thought had revolted him at first, but hunger was serving to erase his perceived notions of morality better than the Dark Side ever could. Besides, he wasn't stealing money, or even anything of value. He was stealing a one credit serving of noodles, so he wouldn't starve to death in a filthy alley somewhere. Having thusly assuaged his conscience, he dismissed it, and turned his mind to the far more practical matter of how to go about stealing.

The guards made an open theft a death wish. He was unarmed, aching, bruised, and hungry. His chances of defeating two armed guards, as well as the vendor, and any of the populace on the street, were about the same as his chances of getting charity from a Hutt.

Maybe he could follow one of the customers after they bought their food, take it from them, and vanish into the darkness. It was certainly a better plan than trying to-

"I know that look." A voice behind him said, sounding slightly amused.

Marcus turned sharply, inwardly cursing himself for becoming so blinded by his current task, and forgetting to be mindful of his surroundings.

The speaker was standing about a meter behind him, wearing a long dark coat, the square patches of rivets suggesting that armor had been added to the garment. His facial features were somewhat sharp and angular, giving him the air of an intellectual, a feature somewhat contrasted by the splotches of a burn scar on the right side of his face.

The right sleeve of his coat was a bit bulkier than the other, suggesting some sort of wrist mounted weapon, and the stranger hadn't taken any particular pains to conceal the short blaster carbine slung under his coat, hanging against the plain grey shirt he wore beneath.

"That's the look of a man about to steal for the first time." The stranger continued. "The undercity has been rough on you, my friend."

Marcus readied himself for whatever might come, planting his feet, his arms tensing.

"I don't think we've m-" he started.

"My name is Garth Mercier." The man said, pulling a shiny twenty credit coin from a pouch on his belt, offering it to Marcus. "And I am very glad that I found you."

Marcus hesitated, before reaching out and accepting the coin, turning it over in his fingers, wondering if this was a strange dream.

"And why would you give me money?" Marcus asked, his eyes narrowing, wondering if he should just turn and run as fast as he could. "I recall a saying about things that are too good to be true."

"Indeed." Garth chuckled, leaning casually against the gray duracrete wall beside him. "You, my strange man, are far too good to be true. When I heard rumors of some lunatic jumping out the window of the Jedi Temple, dangling from a homemade kite, and using it as a parachute, I thought to myself 'now there's a guy with potential'."

Marcus tensed slightly, readying himself to spring, either into cover around the corner, or forward to disable Garth before he could raise his weapon.

"But, I dismissed the notion, knowing that someone with that sort of drive and will would be far out of my reach." Garth continued. "But then I came down here with my crew, to drown my sorrows in cheap liquor, and I heard a rumor from a crazy homeless man, that he saw three of the most vicious thugs around, get beat to a bloody pulp by some sort of demon. I knew it had to be you, and after that, all the liquor and professional women in the galaxy couldn't stop me from calling in all the favors and contacts I knew, in order to find you."

"And why would you want to find me?" Marcus asked, calculating the chances of tackling Garth to the ground, and shooting him with his own weapon.

"A Force sensitive, on the run from the Jedi, who's willing to fight and kill and get his hands dirty?" Garth asked, a cold smile falling across his face. "What could a less than reputable man possibly want with someone like you?"

"You're a mercenary." Marcus said, mulling over the implied idea. "And you want to hire me."

"I'm a privateer." Garth corrected, with a shrug. "But I suppose there isn't much of a difference. But yes, I very much want to hire you. You have a talent for violence, and you don't belong in some filthy gutter waiting to steal a bowl of noodles."

A week ago, Marcus would have quoted some long dead Jedi about the quality of a man's soul who commits violence for money, but that time had long passed. Jedi were trained as peacekeepers, yes, but they were also trained as warriors. And Marcus was hungry.

"I'm listening." Marcus said, pocketing the coin.

"Let's discuss this over food." Garth said, clapping Marcus on the shoulder, eliciting a startled flinch. "And then we'll talk about how much you need to relax."

Ten minutes later, Marcus and Garth sat in a corner booth in the atrium of the hotel/massage parlor. He had been a little shocked at first, seeing the women (and men) inside, dressed, or rather undressed, as they were.

The scandalized look on his face had earned a hearty laugh from Garth, but Marcus's embarrassment quickly faded as his new employer bought him a heavy tray of food. Now he was pouring noodle stew into his mouth as fast as he could manage, while listening to Garth explain the terms of his employment.

"I've got a ship here, in the spaceport." Garth said, leaning back in the padded bench, watching the clients of the bordello with an absent, but alert eye. "And a crew of eight. That's our full time staff, but I'll pick up part time muscle if we need it. I dabble in smuggling occasionally, but mostly stick to escorting, scouting, and that sort of thing. I've got a lot of acquaintances throughout the galaxy, so when we're planetside, I usually find some side jobs for the crew. Debt collection, bodyguarding, rack up a bodycount with the local crime rings occasionally, if the price is right."

"So you want to pay me, to hurt people." Marcus said flatly, as he finished his fourth bowl of noodles.

"I like you, you're right to the point." Garth said, nodding. "Yes, I pay you, and you hurt people for me. Sometimes even kill them. Don't tell me your conscience is acting up out of misguided intent, now that you've got a full stomach. You're not going to be kicking down old ladies and stealing their shoes. You'll be doing the galaxy a favor, with the sort of people we deal with. Like those scum in the alley that you took care of."

"No being, no matter how far they have fallen, is entirely evil, and beyond saving." Marcus said quietly, looking up from his empty bowls, across the table at Garth.

"Be that as it may, they tend to hurt a lot of good people on their way down." Garth said, not seeming in the least offended by Marcus questioning his morality. "And I see through your act, by the way. You're more like me than you'll ever know."

"Act?" Marcus said, his voice hardening, fighting back the surge of anger at this man in front of him. "I'm not acting. Maybe I just haven't fallen far enough that I'm willing to kill people because I'm paid to."

"No, the pay is just a bonus, really." Garth muttered. "I suppose you're going to tell me that you felt guilty afterward, for what you did to those thugs in the alley?"

Marcus was silent a moment, as he searched his feelings, finding that this line of discussion was making him vaguely uncomfortable.

"Yes." Marcus said eventually. "Of course I felt guilty. Those men could have been driven to that life by the cruelty of others, by drug addiction, by poor circumstance. I feel guilt for hurting them, no matter how cruel and violent they had become themselves."

"I know you feel guilt." Garth said, his voice lowering, as he leaned forward onto the table. "But do you feel guilty because of what you did, or do you feel guilty because you enjoyed it?"

"I…. you…." Marcus spluttered. "I'm not sure."

"Well I am." Garth said, working his way out of the bench. "I know you'll do quite well for yourself with my crew."

The mercenary nodded toward the spiral staircase, leading toward the upper level of the hotel, where the rooms were located. By the sound of things, not many of the patrons were coming here to sleep.

"Go on then, spend the night, your tab is on me." Garth said, extending a hand. "I've got some business here too, and you look like you could use some sleep, and a chance to wash up. I'll find you in the morning, and we'll get the details settled."

Marcus accepted Garth's handshake, giving him a firm grip in return.

"I think I'll enjoy working with you." Marcus said, after Garth released his hand.

Turning away, the former Jedi started toward the staircase, a little numbly, considering how it was possible for his fortunes to change in so short a time.


End file.
